


Timesick

by temptedmelibea



Category: Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling
Genre: F/M, Fantasy, Friendship, HP: EWE, Humor, Love/Hate, Post-Battle of Hogwarts, Post-Deathly Hallows, tomione - Freeform
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2015-12-28
Updated: 2016-01-02
Packaged: 2018-05-09 23:04:57
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 2
Words: 12,243
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5559125
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/temptedmelibea/pseuds/temptedmelibea
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>"She never spoke to any of them if she could help it. Not only would it affect the timeline, but she would bring attention to herself.</p>
<p>Hermione Granger could not afford any kind of attention—not in the year 1944."</p>
<p>When a new magical disease starts sending Time Turner users to the past, Hermione is sent to Tom Riddle's time at Hogwarts. Tomione.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

__

A/N: This was going to be a oneshot, but it was starting to get too long and I can’t yet foresee a clear ending. I am guesstimating a chapter or two more and then the story will be complete. Also, please excuse my lack of editing—every time I went back to edit, I ended up substracting several paragraphs and adding even more, so this will have to do.

 

 

She never spoke to any of them if she could help it. Not only would it affect the timeline, but she would bring attention to herself.

Hermione Granger could not afford any kind of attention—not in the year 1944.

 

Thinking back, when Horacious Gringell went missing shortly after the war, Hermione should have suspected that it might have something to do with time turners. Horacious Gringell was the first Auror to experimentally use time travel as a crime solving method, back in the late 1980s. He had used time turners many times to solve murder cases, successfully, with no ill effects—until he disappeared in Hermione’s year, 1998.

Horacious Grigell came back days later and was interviewed by The Daily Prophet. The headlines went on for days: ‘ _New Magical Illness Discovered!’ ‘Timesickness: Could you have it?’ ‘An Exclusive Interview with Horacious Gringell About His Time in 1978’._ Hermione grew concerned, as did Harry and the Weasleys. Excessive use of time turners had been found to eventually cause Timesickness, a new disease that made the sufferer susceptible to randomly travelling across time without any control of when and where this happened. There was no cure, and currently Healers thought that anybody who’d used time turners frequently was in danger of having the disease.

Hermione’s third year at Hogwarts certainly qualified as frequent use of time turners.

Still, when Hermione suddenly found herself at a 1944 Hogwarts one morning, she hadn’t been too worried. Horacious Gringell had been missing for four days. Surely she could manage to survive a few days alone, hidden in the Room of Requirement. So she hid herself, only coming out at night to ask the House Elves for food and secrecy.

The days slowly turned into weeks, then school began.

It was the 5th of September 1944 when Hermione became desperate enough and went to Professor Dumbledore for help. She was eternally grateful when he asked her _no questions_ , but instead he and the current Headmaster welcomed her as a new if unexpected student.

By September 6th, Hermione was attending classes as a Seventh Year Gryffindor.

Other students and teachers were curious. They had never seen a new student arrive so late and suddenly before. Hermione did her best to mitigate their intrigue: She was a new student from Beauxbatons and she and her family had recently moved to England. Obviously she could not talk much about Beauxbatons and the school’s secrets, as they’d understand.

She then—through great personal effort—managed to become such a seemingly average student with a shy personality that most people forgot about her after the newness died off.

All of them, of course, except for Tom Marvolo Riddle.

Hermione dreaded the Head Boy’s attention the most. Gryffindor had Potions and Defense Against the Dark Arts with the Slytherins, and every class Riddle would _not keep from studying her_. It made Hermione feel paranoid as she purposefully sliced her beetles too thickly in Potions and did terribly in nonverbal magic. Hermione was not the best Occlumens, but surely she managed to get by enough for Riddle to be fooled by her disguise?

It was October 3rd when Profesor Slughorn inevitably paired Riddle and Hermione together. She should have known.

They were about to learn how to make _Felix Felicis_ —a dangerous potion for Lord Voldemort to learn, Hermione thought grimly—when Slughorn suddenly announced that he wanted them to work in pairs so that the Houses could intermingle.  “That means you with Romil, Ms Vance—and you with Ms Granger, I think, Tom—let’s show Beauxbatons our very best,” he’d said with a wink.

Hermione remained calm as Riddle approached her desk, thanking her lucky stars that Lord Voldemort would never learn of her name in the future. She had not thought it possible to lie to Professor Dumbledore about her name when she was already going to lie to him about everything else—and she hoped it wouldn’t matter, as long as she kept a low enough profile.

“Ms Granger,” Riddle said with a polite nod as he sat next to her. He exuded confidence, which made Hermione nervous. “I believe we’ve never spoken before, but I’m sure by now you should be aware that I do well in Potions. _Felix Felicis_ is a very complicated potion, but you don’t have to worry. I will help you.”

The idea of Voldemort helping anybody was _hilarious_. She _almost_ snorted.

“Thank you, Mr Riddle,” she managed to say. “I’m afraid I’m not as good as you at Potions, they can get very complicated.”

“You do them well eventually,” he reassured her, and it unnerved her greatly how that implied he had been watching her. “And you can call me Tom. We’re classmated after all.”

“Oh, right, sorry …Tom,” Hermione said with what she hoped came across as a shy smile. “I still have trouble with this. I’ve been going to Beauxbatons my whole life, you see—and now I’m suddenly here.”

There was a brief silence as they both from their Potions books the directions that Hermione already knew.

“You speak English very well, for a foreigner,” Riddle said casually. Hermione knew it for what it was: he was _probing_. She hadn’t convinced him.

Hermione was calm as she shared a bit of partial truth. “I grew up in London. My parents had practice there. But most of my dad’s family is from France, and my grandma was getting old so we went to take care of her.”

“I’m sorry to hear that,” Riddle said. “I hope your moving back here means good news.”

“No, grandma died,” Hermione said abruptly. “I’m sorry but I really don’t like talking about it.”

“I’m sorry to hear that,” Riddle said softly. _Lied softly._ “Does that mean your family has moved back to London? What is their practice on, perhaps I’ve heard of them.”

“They’re both dentists,” Hermione said proudly and she hoped that his proximity with a Muggleborn was making Voldemort squirm. “And they’re working on opening up a new practice, yes, but it takes time since we’ve only been here since September.”

“I see,” Riddle said politely. Hermione noticed with a grin that he remained mostly quiet after that.

They spent half an hour in near silence, with Riddle occasionally correcting Hermione here and there. Although it cost Hermione great effort to purposefully do badly in school, she found there was a vindictive satisfaction every time Riddle was derailed from his work in order to show her how to do something she already knew.

“I’ve been chopping up the Murtlap too thickly this whole time!” Hermione exclaimed the third time Riddle corrected her, stopping what he was doing so that he could chop the Murtlap up for her. It was clear that her incompetence was unnerving him. Hermione grinned as though she’d just suddenly gotten this wonderful Potions revelation, but secretly she was just laughing at Riddle’s frustration. He deserved it, _the_ _asshole._

When the potion was nearly finished, she purposefully started stirring counterclockwise and almost ruined the whole thing.

“Just stop helping. Don’t touch anything,” Riddle said with so much exasperation, Hermione Granger felt victorious.

 

Even negative attention was still attention, so Hermione resolve to commit herself to do only the most absolute average in class. She handed her papers on time, with just enough perceived effort to do either Poorly or Exceed Expectations. Once in a while, she did enough to Exceed Expectations, and once during Potions she did Dreadfully. She often wished Ron could do her homework.

It was a miserable existence. Hermione was dying inside.

Halloween came and went, and with it died her hopes of getting back to her time anytime soon. She had been foolish. Just because Horacious  Gringell had only vanished for a few days in his time, it didn’t mean he hadn’t been stuck for months in the era he’d ended up. He could have lived in a different time for _years_ , but Hermione tried hard not to think about that. She couldn’t panic.

The wait was driving her mad, though.

 

Just a book. Just _one_ book in something advanced yet seemingly harmless, like Advanced Arithmancy, and she would get through the next few days with her sanity intact.

Hermione wandered the Arithmancy section of the library, looking for a book thick enough and obscure enough to be a challenge, when she saw him. Tom Riddle. Doing homework in a rather quiet corner of the library.

Her chest tightened. Of _course_ he would be at the library.

She tried to backtrack her steps but he looked up and saw her. Saw her with _Second Derivatives and their Magical Properties_ firm in her hands.

_Oh shit_.

He smiled politely at her.

“Oh, hi, Tom,” Hermione said casually, forcing a smile. “I didn’t see you there. I was just… Just browsing.” The book felt heavy in her hands.

Tom Riddle quirked an eyebrow, still smiling. “Hello, Hermione. I didn’t know you took Advanced Arithmancy.”

“I don’t,” Hermione said. Awkwardly.

There was a small, uncomfortable silence.

“It’s just… My parents owled me this morning and their letter mentioned second derivatives, so I was hoping maybe this book explained what they were about.”

“Your parents wrote to you about second derivatives,” Riddle repeated, looking thoroughly amused. “Your parents. The dentists.”

“Yeah,” Hermione nodded, trying not to look distressed as she sank in her own pile of bullshit. “My mom… likes math.”

“And do you?” he asked her.

“Oh, no…” she lied. “No…”

“Second derivatives are essentially the rate at which the rate of change itself changes,” Riddle explained cordially. “A good example of this would be acceleration: it’s the derivative of velocity—that is, the rate of change of velocity—which makes it the second derivative of an object’s position. Position, velocity, acceleration: Position, its derivative, and its second derivative. Second derivatives are particularly useful when determining if any change in the future will be permanent.”

Although Hermione was pretty sure she could have explained it better, she still had to try to look impressed. “Wow, Tom! You sound so good at this.”

“I am,” Riddle said with a humble smile. “I could tutor you, if you wished to learn. But honestly, if you’re seeking to know the future, Divination is a better bet.”

Hermione’s eye twitched.

“So, um, what are you working on?” she asked casually in a firm attempt to not strangle him. _Divination over Arithmancy? Are you kidding me?_

“The essay for Professor Merrythought,” Riddle said, “Have you started it? It’s due next week, but I’m just editing mine. I could help you with yours, if you have it. I have been told I’m very good at tutoring for Defense in particular.” He flashed her a smile so bright, it blinded her. He was _so_ ridiculously handsome.

“Oh, I’m not too worried again,” Hermione said, remembering Ron’s usual words verbatim. “I’ll just ask you to let me copy off yours once you’re done.”

The way he looked at her, people might have thought she had slapped him.

“I—I don’t mean you, obviously,” she said quickly, trying to correct her mistake: she had “Ron”ed too far, with the wrong person. “I mean—I’ll—I’ll copy off Hermione.”

His stare changed. “But—you _are_ Hermione.” There was a brief pause. “Are you alright?”

“I’m fine!” she exclaimed, too loudly and too quickly. “I must be going now. Bye, Tom!”

When she left, she shamelessly took the Arithmancy book with her.

 

She had done so poorly in Potions that Professor Slughorn had forgotten her name. Hermione felt strange to be pleased by this, yet she knew being forgettable was entirely necessary.

Now, if only Riddle would leave her alone…

Following their interaction at the library, she felt the Head Boy had bestowed upon her his renewed interest. She wasn’t sure of what had caused this—if it was the book or the math or her awkwardness or her escape—but she knew she didn’t like it.

He had taken to sitting next to her at Potions, as well as at Defense Against the Dark Arts.

It was unnerving.

 

“You’re rather strange. Did you know that?” he asked her over her Potions essay. They were sitting at his usual quiet spot in the library and she was getting tutoring lessons from him—at his insistence.  

Hermione swallowed. “How so, Tom?”

“The way you write: It’s very good. Yet somehow you never quite give all the information we learned at the lesson, and some of the things you write are wrong, even though I _know_ you were taking notes and paying attention.” He looked at her. “It’s almost as if you’re setting yourself up to fail.”

Hermione waved her hand. “I just can’t remember all there is to write!”

“Then read your notes,” Riddle said, raising an eyebrow. “You brought them with you, I’m sure?”

The way he was looking at her made Hermione feel entirely self-conscious. “I—erm—they’re doodles.”

His gaze intensified. He looked accusing and very curious. “No, they’re not. I saw what you wrote.”

“Erm,” Hermione articulated, shifting in her seat. She now wished she wasn’t sitting in front of him, and the table was so very small. She had only noticed the short distance between them when Riddle’s hand grabbed at her own.

She swore she was having a heart attack. His hand was surprisingly gentle.

“I have a feeling I am wasting my time tutoring you,” he said softly. There was a warm smile on his lips that caused her heart to flutter but when his dark eyes met hers—they looked empty. She looked away. “Tell me, Hermione—won’t you ever show me what you can _really_ do?”

She abruptly got up from the table. Quickly gathered her things. Riddle got up as well, and they walked out of the library together.

“I’ve neglected to mention something about myself,” he told her calmly as they walked through the library door. She began to quickly walk towards the Gryffindor Common Room. He followed her easily; he was _much_ taller than her ( _why_ was she noticing that now?). “I am _very_ good at magic”—he continued, rather openly prideful this time—“I was _born_ good at it, actually. So I’ve gotten quite good at picking up magic auras, if that makes sense. Each living magical thing, each magical object—it emits a faint magical frequency of sorts, and I can usually feel it.”

She ignored him. They were in the third floor now. A few more hallways and stairs to go and this castle was _too—damn—big…_

“Anyway”—he opened a door for her—“ _your_ magic feels different than others I’ve met. It is also really, _quite_ strong—but unique. Almost— _wrong_ , somehow. Can you tell me _why_?”

She ignored him and kept walking until he stood in front of her. She could tell she was trying his patience, even as he patiently smiled at her. Always smiling at her. It was unnerving.

“I wouldn’t know,” she answered, more than a little irritated. “I can’t really _feel_ these ‘magic auras’. Maybe I’m sick. Now, if you excuse me, my friends are waiting for me at the Gryffindor common room.”

She tried to move past him and he grabbed her arm and he chuckled darkly—actually _chuckled freaking darkly—_ sending a wave of fear down her spine. “Now, now, Hermione. We both know very well you’ve made no friends.”

She swallowed. That much was true. She had tried so badly to remain forgettable and invisible so as to not harm the timeline, she’d never actually made any friends or acquaintances to miss her if she’d gone. Ideally, this meant that she wouldn’t be missed when she returned to her own time. She had never thought it would make her more vulnerable to _Voldemort_ , hadn’t thought he would even look at her twice if she kept enough of a low profile.

But that hadn’t worked, had it? As a matter of fact, they had been spending so much time together lately—and he was dead in her present, so why would she care?—but it horrified her to realize that if she had ever made anything close to an acquaintance here, anything even close to a friend, it would have been…

She shuddered.

_Him_.

She was too surprised at her mental revelation to be afraid when he pushed her against the wall, too stunned at the prospect of a _friendship_ , of sorts, with _Voldemort_ to notice at first how close his body pressed against hers. Her head was on her chest and she looked up to him, saw the menacing gleam in his eyes, and—oh.

Not friends, then, of course. She’d almost forgotten.

Harry and Ginny had more than once told her how charming he could be when he was this age.

She felt rather silly now, actually. Somehow that feeling got rather broadcast across her face, instead of the panic that she should feel.

He smirked at her— _Legimens!_ , of _course_ —and began laughing softly. Hermione could feel the alluring sound vibrating on his chest. She blushed—this as _too intimate_.

“You are a… _very_ strange little witch, Hermione Granger,” he told her. He sounded almost jovial. Teasing.

She put her hands up against his chest and pushed gently. “If _I’m_ the strange one, I wonder what that makes you,” she countered matter-of-factly. “The one who pushes strange witch against the wall in corridors.”

“Against _deserted_ corridors,” Riddle corrected her. There was a wicked tone in his voice. “Today is the Quidditch match, had you forgotten? Gryffindor against Slytherin. Nobody would ever miss it.”

Her heart felt heavy on her chest. She _had_ forgotten. “I don’t follow Quidditch,” she told him, and she hated how small and how frightened her voice sounded now.

Riddle took a step back and smiled at her. Then he took out his wand and started playing with it, finally giving her a little space. She found, now that she could see his wand, that she much preferred his previous position and her face against his chest.

“A wise thing,” he agreed with her, casually fiddling with his wand. Her breath stopped whenever it pointed at her. “Quidditch is a waste of time. Although a very useful distraction in times like this.”

She was desperately searching for the words to say when he finally pointed his wand at her, his gaze eerily serene and guiltless. She remembered he was 17. He had already made a horcrux, already had plans to make another in the summer.

He had already killed Myrtle and his father.

He was already Voldemort and she felt another wave of panic at that.

He smiled approvingly. “Ah, there you go. I was wondering when you would start to be _properly_ afraid.” He moved closer to her then, and with a hand lifted up her chin in order to press his wand against her neck. Hermione whimpered, hating herself for doing so. She had never been as brave as Harry.

“Good girl,” purred Riddle approvingly as he caressed her cheek. She didn’t dare look at him. “Now, _Hermione_ , be a good little witch and tell me anything you feel I should know about you.”

She closed her eyes and kept quiet, ignoring the lound thumping in her chest. _Breathe in, breathe out, empty your mind…_

 “Tut tut tut. Keep in mind it is only my duty as Head Boy to ensure you are no threat to this school, Miss Granger.” He pressed his wand even harder on her neck, it hurt… “And remember, I can always _make_ you tell me.”

“My name is Hermione Granger,” she recited mechanically. “My parents are Muggles. The Head Boy, Tom Riddle, is currently holding his wand against my neck…”

A very painful shock of electricity struck from Riddles wand onto her neck, and Hermione vividly remembered the torture she endured under Bellatrix Lestrange at the Malfoy Manor. She was a coward, she was clever but she was a coward… She felt warm tears falling down her face and hated herself.

“I am good at magic,” she admitted, not sure if she was giving away too much, but feeling desperate to escape. “I am _very_ good. I was the top student at my school, previously. But I pretend to be average because I don’t want to bring any attention to myself, because I am a Muggleborn”—she half-lied—“and I’ve found that a lot of Purebloods take particular offense to being bested by a witch raised by Muggles. I’ve learned this the hard way,” she said, pulling her robe sleeve back and showing Riddle the word MUDBLOOD Bellatrix Lestrange had carved on her arm while she tortured her. She was not even lying. Not entirely, at least.

She heard Tom Riddle hiss as he took in her scar, pulling her arm towards him to inspect it even as he maintained his wand against her neck with his other hand. She felt his thumb caressing the carvings and got goosebumps.

“And you chose to continue your education here?” he whispered. His voice sounded mildly accusing. “Wouldn’t it have been better for you to just return the wand and give up magic entirely?”

She pulled her arm away from him and glared at him. “I _love_ magic,” she said fiercely. “I would _never_ give it up. I am a witch, in case you hadn’t noticed, and I am not letting any _bigot_ ”—she looked at him accusingly—“keep me from who I am.”

Riddle raised an eyebrow. “It’s not just the Continent who has a problems with Muggleborns, you know. Even here at Hogwarts, most of the Purebloods… Why, only two years ago Slytherin’s Chamber of Secrets was opened, and—unfortunately—a Muggleborn died. I helped put a stop to that, of course, but it could happen again. Muggleborns aren’t very welcome in the Wizarding world.”

She had a curious feeling between wanting to laugh and wanting to punch him. She resolved to sarcasm instead. “Well! When you put it _that_ way,” she said, exaggeratedly rolling her eyes. “I guess I have no choice. I mean, if _the Chamber of Secrets_ is going to be opened again by another _adolescent_. I might get _petrified_ by another _Acromantula_ somehow, even though anybody with less prejudice and half a brain cell would realize Acromantulas can’t petrify shit.”

“You’ve heard about the Chamber of Secrets,” he stated, more than mildly surprised.

“I’ve read _Hogwarts, A History_ ,” she snapped at him.

“So have I,” Riddle said quietly and Hermione knew she had just made a big mistake. “There’s nothing in it about the recent reopening of the Chamber. It happened only two years ago. How were you so informed?”

There was a pregnant pause during which Hermione cursed her big mouth, cursed her timesickness, and weighed her options.

Telling the truth was out of the question, not like he would believe her anyway.

Telling a lie was the way to go, but how in the world would she explain knowing what happened to Hagrid?

“I might have overheard it at the Gryffindor Common Room, then,” she mused. “Although I really don’t believe there was ever a Chamber with a petrifying _Acromantula_ in it. More likely, a student brought the Acromantula into the castle, and mass hysteria caused people to blame it on lore.” She rolled her eyes. “Now are we done here?”

Riddle considered her for a long moment before removing the wand from her neck, making Hermione inhale deeply with relief.

He moved away from her. “I suppose you aren’t really a threat then, like I suspected,” he said, businesslike. It was bizarre to think a moment before he might have been close to cursing her. “My apologies for the rough questioning. With the war in the Continent, and you being from France… I’m sorry, but I hope you understand why I felt so suspicious.”

Hermione moved to rub her aching neck. “I suppose I shouldn’t blame you. But honestly, I’m just trying to lay low for a while until I graduate.”

“Here, let me help you,” Riddle said, and he nearly gave Hermione another heart attack when he pointed his wand back at her neck. “ _Episkey_. Good as new,” he said, and Hermione didn’t have to see it to believe he had successfully healed her forming bruise.

As well as the evidence.

“I should probably return to my Head Boy duties. Shall I escort you to your Common Room?” he said cordially.

Hermione snorted at the irony of that. “No thanks.”

He nodded in her direction, and then walked away.

 

That night, Tom Riddle couldn’t sleep. He kept tossing and turning and thinking about _the Mudblood_.

She hadn’t been lying about her Muggle parents. He wouldn’t lie to himself and say he wasn’t disappointed. Her magic was strong, but to think it came from someone whose background was so filthy… And here he had been trying, not even two years prior, to rid his home—Hogwarts—from Mudbloods, and now they were getting imported into the castle all the way from France.

So inconvenient, really—Hermione’s existence. It was clear she had to go. The fact that she had caught his attention only meant that she might be a suitable opponent, and with her being only one step up from a Muggle, that simply wouldn’t do. What would his Knights say if they saw the Heir of Slytherin competing against a _Mudblood_?

It was clear that he would have to tell his group of followers about this witch. Of course, after they knew of her heritage, he couldn’t guarantee her safety…

Tom Riddle turned in his bed again, and tried not to think about the warm brown eyes of the witch and how oddly at peace he felt whenever she was close to him.

 

Riddle no longer sat next to her in class, no longer spoke to her in the hallways, and completely ignored her.

She found that she missed him.

Hermione hadn’t realized how much of her time and energy was spent monitoring Tom Riddle, anticipating his questions, thinking up ways to twist the truth so that he wouldn’t suspect her. Now, with him gone, all she ever did was think about Ron.

And Harry.

And her parents.

And Ginny and Neville and—

She needed to find a place to have a good _cry,_ because she couldn’t bear the solitude anymore. She had been stuck in this time for months with no friends and no family. She even missed talking to _the Dark Lord Voldemort_ , for Merlin’s sake, and he might have killed her!

Her dorm was out of the question and her Common Room was out of the question. She was never alone there, not really—

And she couldn’t risk bringing attention to the Room of Requirement, not during Riddle’s time…

A place sprung in her mind and she started walking towards the library. Riddle might be in their usual solitary spot, but sod it, he could _sit there_ and watch her cry for all she cared. The git. She didn’t care.

There was a group of students blocking the hallway. Slytherins. Four of them.

They didn’t seem very friendly. Hermione’s hand went to her pocket, and tightened her grip around her wand.

“Well, look. If it isn’t the French Mudblood,” said the tallest of them, a dark-haired Sixth Year whom Hermione swore she’d seen hanging around Riddle. Looking at all of them, she was fairly certain she had seen all of them with Riddle, including Lestrange and Avery.

Her mind made a _click_. Ah. The Knights of Walpurgis, then. Excellent.

Just bloody freaking great.

“Nice  vocabulary,” Hermione told them. “Can I help you?”

They laughed, and Hermione was slightly offended that they thought they had the upper hand in this. Riddle had probably taught them dark magic, but come on. She’d fought grown _Death Eaters_ and won, and these schoolboys lacked experience.

“It’s too late to leave the school of your own accord, love,” said the one she recognized as Avery. His smile was pretty sadistic, and was beginning to unnerve her. “Now we get to have our fun with you, and show France how we treat Mudblood scum.”

Hermione took out her wand.

“ _Locomotor Mortis!_ ” yelled one of the Knights, Hermione did not know which.

Hermione waved her wand in front of her “ _Protego!_ ”—a blue shield of light emanated from the tip of her wand and protected her. As soon as the shield did its job, she pointed her wand at the most tallest of the group and conjured a wordless   _Expelliarmus_.

She felt very pleased with herself when the boy’s wand fell on her hand. “I should perhaps warn you that dueling in the corridors is forbidden,” she smirked.

“You filthy Mudblood!” Lestrange yelled, face red. He pointed his wand at her at the same time Avery did—

Hermione defended herself with an early offense, and launched two Bat-Bogey hexes in their direction. Avery and Lestrange screamed. And then of course they ran away.

Bullies were cowardly by nature, Hermione thought.

“You will pay for this, Mudblood!” the tallest Knight yelled as the four of them ran. Feeling uncharacteristically Ginny-like, Hermione flipped them off.

 

Riddle was, of course, sitting at his usual table at the library, but since Hermione no longer felt like crying, she found she didn’t mind.

“Here,” she said, putting the wand at the table brusquely. Tom looked up at her with a quizzical look. It was clear he had not expected her. “I really should have snapped the bloody thing in two, but here. This belongs to your Sixth Year friend, the tall one. Tell him that if he ever tries to corner me again, a Bat-Bogey Hex is the least of his concerns.”

“I do not know what you are talking about,” Riddle said innocently. “But if you’re referring to Dolohov, I can be sure to pass the message.”

Hermione shuddered at the name, too surprised to repress it as she remembered the nasty curse she’d gotten from Dolohov at the Ministry. Tom Riddle noticed. “Something the matter?”

“No. Just—just tell your friends to not be complete prats. Alright? I mean it. I know you sent them to it. So tell them to stop. Life is already difficult enough for me here,” Hermione groaned.

There was a brief moment in which Riddle considered her, and she could practically s _ee_ it, could see the way the wheels turned in his head to come to a charming enough answer to her accusation. And then he came up with “I assure you, you are mistaken. But I’m sorry to hear you feel that way. I am here if you need somebody to talk to, if you think that might help.”

And she _knew_ that he’d only said that to make himself look good, she _knew_ that he didn’t mean it and couldn’t care less about her, but she was so tired of waiting, so desperate and sick of not being able to talk about home that she—

That she—

She collapsed on the empty chair in front of him, elbows on the table, hands on her face, and groaned. “No, you can’t help. Nobody can help. I miss my _home_ in—in France. I had friends there, and family, and I miss them terribly but I can’t write to them and it’s driving me insane, and no one here can understand but we’d _just_ gone through some pretty horrible things due to—to Grindelwald—and now that we were finally safe from him I get sent _here_ and—oh, Tom. This really _sucks_.”

Tom Riddle listened, and he put up such a perfect caricature of caring that she couldn’t care it wasn’t the real thing. “Why can’t you owl them? Your friends.”

“It’s complicated. Owls are easy to intercept”—not to mention utterly impossible to send across time—“Let’s just say I need to see them in person. But I don’t know how long the wait for that might be.”

There was a pause, then silence, and Hermione’s face fell on the table. “I might never see them again.” The thought terrified her.

Riddle, looking thoughtful, opened his mouth and then closed it, then opened it again. It became clear to Hermione that he was debating on what to say. She looked at him accusingly. “If you are thinking of telling me to leave Hogwarts again, I swear I will kill you.”

His eyebrows raised. “Then I am unsure of what it is you want me to say.”

“You’re fine keeping quiet,” she mumbled, picking up one of his Advanced Charms textbooks. It was almost December. Was he studying for the finals? She would have started studying weeks ago. “Just don’t be a prat.”

They spent the rest of the afternoon in silence, each studying on their own, Hermione’s façade of as an average student forgotten in front of him (he already knew; so what was the point?)

The next day, when he reviewed Arithmancy, Hermione went and joined him.


	2. Chapter 2

Part Two

 

Fuck. She was brilliant.

 

Two weeks had passed since Tom and Hermione had begun studying— _really_ studying—together. He found that it was easy to debate magic with someone who was not an academic threat to him. (Hermione had sworn to him that she planned to pass her tests only with an Acceptable although she'd "treat" herself to one Exceeds Expectations). Not that Hermione couldn't come close to matching him, if she tried. He had never had the opportunity to speak to someone so clever. It felt insulting to him—as he was the Heir of Slytherin and she was but a low Mudblood—but for now he would live with that fact.

 

She was very interesting.

 

It wasn't as if Hermione didn't know what he thought of her heritage. She hadn't outright blamed him for the failed attack brought upon her by his Knights, but she had alluded that she knew he had been the reason behind the attack. Yet still, she spent time alone with him—still greeted him warmly when she saw him, was still willing to meet him for the next study session after once again losing her temper during their frequent debates. And he found that he also enjoyed her company, although begrudgingly, even as he wondered what to do with the witch. 

 

It was clear to him that such a bright little Mudblood could not stay here at Hogwarts. She was too smart, too exceptional. The existence of a Mudblood like _that_ would appear to contradict anything _he_ , with his noble Slytherin blood, stood for and Tom Riddle could not do with a contradiction. 

 

The witch had to die, it was clear.

 

Tom Riddle rested his chin on his hand as he carefully considered the girl in front of him. She was still going on about _House Elf rights_ , for whatever bizarre reason. Would not shut up about it? She would likely fight him with the same logic and fervor if she knew of his desire to purify the wizarding world. Scoff at the fact that he wanted to rid the world of Mudbloods like her, who didn't really belong. Yes, she had to die—which was sort of a shame—but how to go about it in a way that didn’t incriminate him.

 

Her warm brown eyes looked up to him and he noticed then she had stopped speaking. "Wow. I don't think I have ever left you speechless before."

 

 

He smirked, and a jolt of something warm and pleasant shot through him as he teased her. "I was just marveling at the fact that you were able to find a topic to disagree on even as we're studying _History of Magic_."

 

Hermione blushed. "I just think it's important to learn from past mistakes."

 

"And I just think these things already _happened_ , Hermione. There is no point in ruffled feathers over _facts_."

 

She took a deep breath and returned to the book they were reading, a rather tedious work called _History of Wizardkind_ that was not nearly as interesting as it sounded. Tom really only had planned to skim through it—he always got great marks at History whether he studied hard or not—but Hermione had balked at that idea. In her opinion, Outstanding grades couldn’t be properly earned unless you knew absolutely everything there was to know about the test subject, down to the last minute detail.

 

The girl really didn't know when to pick her battles. Or to save hard work only for things that were worthy and necessary.

 

"You're impossible to talk to," she whispered finally after he'd thought she'd let the subject drop. "And worst of all, you don't care. There is a lot of injustice going on right now because witches and wizards won't bother to look back and question well-known 'facts', never bother to stop and realize that they're following old-fashioned prejudiced views because they refuse to take the time to question them."

 

He looked at her. So that was why she was so stubborn on the subject. She wasn't talking about House Elves anymore, not truly.

 

He wondered if she was aware of how much her sense of inadequacy influenced her opinions.

 

"The very fact that House Elves can be subjugated by wizards proves wizarding superiority," he told her. "Nevermind that you forget the fact that they're _happy_ serving us, Hermione. Not everybody shares your idealistic vision of the world."

 

"Have you ever bothered to ask a single House Elf if they were happy?" Hermione countered irritably. "Not all of them are happy. And so what if they all were? Ever heard of Stockholm syndrome? Even _I_ would absolutely love you if you kept me trapped in a room somewhere for years and years, and _you're_ an absolute prat."

 

The idea of keeping Hermione trapped in a room for years and years danced in his head, and he felt a possessive sort of satisfaction. Maybe—

 

 "No," he said instead.

 

"No _what_?" She hissed.

 

"No, I've never heard of Stockholm syndrome."

 

She froze, and he could see it when the blood left her face. She was pale as a ghost, horrified—but why?

 

"It's—a muggle thing," she said in a mock casual tone. She was feeling anything but casual; he saw the horror in her eyes. _But why?_

 

He would investigate this, of course, but not with her. Stockholm syndrome? He would have to look it up... "There is no shame in knowing Muggle terms, Hermione," he told her instead, soothing her. "It's the world you’ve come from, after all."

 

She relaxed visibly. "I—yeah. Thanks, Tom," and of course he could read her distrust in his statement. Clever witch.

 

*

 

That night, at their meeting, he instructed his Knights on looking up the meaning of Stockholm syndrome by any means necessary. "Question the Mudbloods," he ordered. "They should know. Bring results to me soon or there shall be... consequences."

 

The days passed and his Knights grew desperate, getting bolder with their methods. James Allison, a Hufflepuff first year, was found unconscious in a puddle of his own blood in a bathroom one night. Lily Smith, a fifth year Ravenclaw, had her late grandmother's photo album catch on fire. Maggie Wyeth, a seventh year also from Ravenclaw, had received a cursed gift and had been cursed so badly, she had to be sent to St Mungo's. All of them were Mudbloods. None of them remembered what had happened to them. Finally, his Knights' extreme measures had drawn so much attention he had been forced to make them stop. No knowledge had been gained by their efforts. This made Lord Voldemort very angry.

 

He hated when things did not go his way. He would be sure to remind his Knights of what happened when they failed Lord Voldemort.

 

*

 

It was their last study session before the end of finals week and Hermione was once again readying herself for intentional failure. The witch wrinkled her nose. The idea of doing average for an entire semester disgusted her.

 

Tom Riddle had been very quiet, poring over her notes on Defense Against the Dark Arts. They had decided to switch notes several days ago, and the idea had been so interesting and effective that the pattern had just stuck. Both of them had differing ideas on what kind of things were important enough to write down for future reference, and they'd found that together they built a pretty complete picture of any subject.

 

Finally he gave up, passing her notes back to her with frustration. "Granger, your notes for Defense are insufferable. You seem to be under the impression that everything Professor Merrythought says is the word of God."

 

Hermione blushed. "A lot of her anecdotes are very interesting," she defended herself. "You never know what might be useful for the N.E.W.T.s." She suddenly became crestfallen. "Not that I could do anything about the N.E.W.T.s, when the time comes."

 

A twist of what Riddle certainly told himself was not pity rose within him. He quashed it instantly. "I hardly believe that anecdotal evidence of the use of defensive spells in pottery could ever come up during N.E.W.T.s. You're just writing down everything that woman says. What is the point, then, of keeping notes."

 

Hermione's blush deepened with indignation. "What about you!" she accused, slapping his notes, then read "'Protean charms are useful to find missing keys', if that isn't anecdotal I will bite my—oh." _Oh_. Her eyes widened with realization. Of course, she was witnessing the development of the Dark Mark. She felt an eerie sort of fascination at the realization. 

 

Riddle had the unnerving feeling that Hermione knew too much, but he whisked it away. It was impossible.

 

"You know," he changed the subject, voice silky smooth. "You never told me what Stockholm syndrome was."

 

Hermione stiffened, sending a wave of pleasure through him. He so liked to make her uncomfortable. "I told you it was a Muggle thing. I doubted you cared to hear about it."

 

"I care to hear anything about you," Riddle said, hand on his chin as he leaned towards her and flirted shamelessly. He knew how handsome he was, how girls fawned over him. Even on Hermione, he could use that as an advantage. She was, after all, ultimately female.

 

Or maybe he could _not_ use his looks as an advantage. Hermione grimaced at him, annoyance evident on her face. "Do I even _look_ like Harriet Parkinson? I can tell you about Stockholm syndrome. You can skip the theatrics."

 

Still, her cheeks had reddened, her pupils dilated, and she shifted uncomfortably in her seat. He felt a surge of victory. She might not let it influence her, but she was definitely attracted to him. Enough that she became uncomfortable when he paid this sort of attention to her, and made her entirely self-conscious.

 

She paused, thoughtful, and weighed her options. "Stockholm syndrome is... it's essentially a phenomenon during which a captive person becomes sympathetic of their captor. Essentially, the hostage grows to love the person or people keeping them captive. It might not be known as that exact term, now that I think about it—my parents... They told me about Stockholdm syndrome, and they're kind of different with how they go about things," she lied. Surely, Riddle would lose interest after she mentioned her Muggle parents.

 

He raised an eyebrow, and to her great inconvenience he seemed interested in what she had to say. Or maybe he feigned interest. It wasn't making her life easier either way. "In what way?"  

 

There was another pause as she remembered her parents. There was no point in trying to convince him that they were good people. Riddle's path was already set, and she was not to do anything that could disturb the timeline. Yet there was nothing about her parents that she could think to share that didn't put them in a positive light. "They just are different, quirky, even for Muggle dentists they’re certainly something," she said simply, waving off his question. She remembered then that he hadn't mentioned yet that he was an orphan. "What are your parents like?" she asked innocently, rather curious about what light he would project himself with.

 

"I never met my parents. I am an orphan," he said, and that was that. Just a statement of the facts, completely devoid of any emotion.

 

Then suddenly she blurted, "You know, I always wondered about the condition of orphanages in the mid-century."

 

He raised an eyebrow. "'Orphanages in the mid-century'? In what world is that a way people talk?"

 

She blushed again, feeling rather silly at her random burst of awkwardness. "Cease your judgment. I've read your essays."

 

A smirk formed on his lips. "I am aware I can be a bit presumptuous in writing"—he conceded ("In _writing_?" Hermione laughed with disbelief)—"But still—'Orphanages in the mid-century',” he repeated her phrasing, savoring the words in his mouth. Then he added, as an afterthought, “Sometimes you speak like you are a time traveler."

 

Multiple things happened at once. The first was Hermione's sharp, almost inaudible intake of air. Riddle noticed this, along with how her breath caught in her throat, how the quill she was holding was gripped tighter in her small hand, how she looked at him. 

 

And then Riddle came to a realization he should have gotten months ago.

 

The girl was a time traveler. That was the weirdness he'd felt on her magic. Not an intentional time traveler--hence the aura of sickness--but a time traveler nonetheless.

 

He looked at her more astounded than he'd ever felt in his life. Past or future? From how close to his present, or from how far away?  What had she seen-- _what did she_ _know_ \--?

 

There was an eerie moment of silence as he composed himself, giving off the perfect illusion of calm and ignorance. It was a well-practiced act. Hermine Granger could not know that he knew.

 

And yet she knew and she was terrified. She knew that he had realized it, saw the slight shift in his composure, how his act had stopped hiding a person and began hiding a monster. She felt that he could kill her there, if he wanted to, then calmly and seemingly innocently go to the Headmaster to announce her death, a tragic accident—

 

There was no point in acting anymore. He would only grow bolder if he thought she couldn't see through him.

 

She looked at him, gaze determined and steady and shining oh-so-brightly with a sort of bravery that impressed even him. And suddenly he understood why she was in Gryffindor. He was remarkable, truly and without a doubt.

 

"Yes, actually,” she said confidently, eyes unwavering. “A time traveler."

 

She left him speechless.

 

"If you could please not tell anyone," she continued with a casual air. "I should be sent back to my time eventually, and I’d much rather prefer to be interviewed by the newspapers _after_ I am born."

 

"So you are from the future then," he said with amazement, and suddenly it all made sense, yet he could not fully believe it, couldn't really... 

 

But why on Earth would she lie?

 

He found her bravery emboldened him. "What time?" he asked.

 

"Much later than now," she said, and she was fiddling with her thumbs and thinking hard as she tried to determine how much she could safely say. "1998."

 

His heart was thumping louder than it ever had. He looked at her with amazement. This girl was Divination's dream. There was so much he wanted to ask, so much he wanted to know, yet he was almost afraid— _him_! _afraid_!—afraid he might ruin his future if he knew too much, asked her too much. But he couldn’t stop himself. "Do you know me, then?" he asked. And the unspoken question was _Do you know of me? Have I been successful in my goal?_

 

She paused for a long time, eyes on the table. He found that he rather desperately wished she would look at him. "We'd never met in person, after this year." Her voice was small. "But I know _of_ you." And there was a certain reverence in her tone and a certain fear that made him know he had been successful.

 

Victory roared in his chest. So he would be known. He would be _feared_. And yet—

 

Yet how—

 

He asked. 

 

"How are you—Are you really—?" _How are you so good at magic? Are you really a Mudblood?_ were the unspoken questions, too self-incriminating if he asked them out loud.

 

She understood him anyway, and approval swelled in his chest. "I really am a Muggleborn," she said with a bitterness in her voice, and now she was looking at him, and there was anger in her eyes. "I went to Hogwarts for six years, until for my seventh year I was no longer allowed to go back. And then I hid."

 

He felt a certain sort of irritation that she'd still managed to attend the seventh year that he would denied her.

 

The irritation grew and he couldn't help himself. "Do you hate me, Hermione?" he taunted, voice cold and cruel. He was angry. Angry that, this once, he had been bested by an _inferior Mudblood_.

 

"Hate is a strong word," she said quietly, her voice barely above a whisper. Her gaze on his was unwavering. "But I do."

 

And she was lying, Riddle noticed. Or perhaps she wasn't lying and she simply didn't know.

 

There was resentment in her eyes, but not hate. There was resentment and anger and fear and distrust. Perhaps she was incapable of hate—he wasn’t sure—and then there was a brief flash of something in her, something warm, and he became unable to _think_.

 

Lust. His pride swelled up at the realization. Even when he had taken her education away, had probably taken everything away from her, she found him irresistible.

 

There was affection in her eyes too, hidden heavily behind a thick layer of denial and guilt. He was much more surprised by _that_ than he was by her lust.

 

She figured out what he was doing. She averted her gaze before he had a chance to explore her mind further.

 

"I didn't know you knew Legimency," she lied, pulling a strand of her hair behind her ear as she looked at the floor beside him.

 

Her tone was neutral and emotionless but she shifted uncomfortably and he _knew_.

 

She _lied_.

 

What else did she know about him?

 

He felt a sudden urge to control the situation and grabbed her hand with his. It felt like suddenly her skin emitted a jolt of electricity and every one of his nerve endings was hyperaware of the fact that he was touching her. The feeling of her magic thrumming against his skin was intoxicating. She remained there, frozen and motionless, and somewhere in his mind he realized how entirely too intimate this felt, how his hand on hers didn't feel threatening at all—

 

It felt—uncomfortable. He removed his hand.

 

"I have been practicing Legimency since before I knew it was a thing," Riddle admitted casually. He wasn't sure why he was telling her this. "I have always been quite good at magic."

 

A small smile graced her lips, her eyes still on the floor. "You're very naturally talented," she said, and somehow it didn't sound quite like flattery. "And remarkably bright. It's a rather dangerous combination."

 

"How about you?" he asked, and he was surprised to find that he was truly curious. "You feel... strong. But I've never actually seen your magic."

 

She looked at him rather shyly and for some reason he wished he had never taken his hand off of hers. "I have always been very clever. I was a bit of a nerd even before I knew—before Hogwarts. But the very first truly practical test I took, I failed. That was back in my third year. Defense Against the Dark Arts. I've practiced harder since then, but still only got an Exceeds Expectations in my Defense O.W.L.." She sounded frustrated. "I am good at defending myself; it's just... The things you can't learn, the things you need to be intuitive about—I am not as good at those."

 

He couldn't believe she was telling him one of her weaknesses. It made him wonder and abruptly asked—"How are you still alive, if you don't mind me asking? I mean—If you've been banned from Hogwarts, surely you know—Why haven't I—"

 

"Why haven't you killed me yet, you're asking," it was not a question and her voice was stern. She hesitated for a moment. "Are you sure no one can listen to us?"

 

"No one," he reassured her. He didn't feel like reminding her of his spells and preemptive measures.

 

She took a deep breath. "I have been targeted before," she admitted. Her voice was calm as she disassociated. "Not by you—you'll have quite a bit of followers, Tom, so you personally setting out to kill somebody is quite rare. I was just a schoolgirl when you rose to power, so I wasn't quite a threat. And I suppose I must tell you now that I vanished to this timeline on the second of September of 1998. You can do whatever you want to me after that date and even here, but not before I vanished. It would affect the timeline. Don't look for me before the second of September of 1998," she said sternly and she wasn't even pretending at this point. Voldemort had come back from the dead before. There was no guarantee that he wouldn’t do it again. "It will affect the timeline. Is that understood? The same applies to me—I am not doing you a courtesy by not attempting to kill you in your sleep. You will be who you will be."

 

There was a brief pause during which Hermione caught her breath and he stared at her. This was not the way Riddle had thought their conversation would go at all. She continued, tone bossy. "Anyway, it's getting late. We're rather wasting our time here, I think. The Defense final is tomorrow and I'd love to know why you thought Protean charms might be useful when it comes for Defense Against the Dark Arts when it is clearly a Charms subject."

 

Riddle was about to object. She spoke again. "There is no use in talking about what will happen. It _will_ happen, and you will find everything out soon enough. But I haven't come here to relive the world you created, thank you." Hermione paused, thoughtful. "And come to think of it, you shouldn't try to murder me during this time, either. There are no records of another death at Hogwarts and it might be too suspicious if you found yourself linked to another student death after Myrtle"—she saw the look he was giving her and rolled her eyes—"not that anybody else ever _suspected_ you. I've just—I’ve spoken to Dumbledore."

 

They spent the rest of their time at the library in awkward conversation, Hermione determined not to resume their chat about the future and ignoring all of Tom's attempts to bring it up again.

 

*

 

He went to the library after the last final exam and waited for her there, but she never showed up. 

 

Irritated, he left to search for her.

 

*

 

She sat by the lake composing a letter to the Headmaster, and it only felt mildly unsettling that it was addressed to Armando Dippet.

 

It was an unusually sunny day for a Scottish winter. Many students were out on school grounds, enjoying their final few days at Hogwarts before winter break. Hermione didn't mind them. It was nice to see so many people out enjoying the sun, even though it was cold.

 

But Hermione had other important things she had to do. She had to prepare, in case her circumstances... changed. 

 

She'd had a very vivid dream about her own time last night. So vivid she could still recall it, down to the last detail. She dreamt that she opened her eyes and it was daytime and her dorm was empty, yet when she looked outside she saw that the lawn had been freshly mowed and they were still fixing the Herbology greenhouse and, come to think of it, her dorm's curtains looked different than usual yet very familiar, very modern...

 

And then she woke up, and she had been sleepwalking and was standing by the dark window, an old-fashioned curtain held firmly in her hand.

 

It had not felt like a dream. It had made Hermione wonder if she was about to return to her own time, finally. She didn't dare bring her hopes up—but still she had to prepare. Like she had told Tom, the death or sudden disappearance of another Hogwarts student was nowhere in the Hogwarts records. If she was going to leave, she wanted to leave a reason behind that left it abundantly clear that she had willingly left and there was nothing extraordinary about her sudden disappearance.

 

So she penned a letter, addressed to Headmaster Dippet, explaining that her mother's health had taken a turn for the worse, and she wished to go on winter break after all so that she could help her father take care of her. And she doubted she might be coming back, but could she please remain on the list of students for next semester, in case her mother felt better and Hermione could return. She thought her circumstances would be tragic enough that the Headmaster would give her all the time she needed, would be inclined to leave her be, give her space—

 

Then Tom Riddle stormed into her bubble. 

 

"Lovely day, isn't it," he said calmly, and he was so composed that Hermione inexplicably thought that she had crossed him. "I hadn't thought of _you_ as the kind who would neglect her studies due to nice weather, but I guess I shouldn't be surprised, with you being a— with your background, I mean."

 

Hermione raised an eyebrow with disbelief. She had definitely crossed him if he was being this bold with her without their usual measures to ensure privacy. "I thought after the last final, we would be done."

 

"You thought wrong," said Riddle, sounding quite irritable. "Not that I care what you do. Who is that letter for, anyway?"

 

"My secret boyfriend," Hermione said sarcastically. "Who do you think? Jesus, Tom—I'm writing to the Headmaster."

 

"Spare me the details," Riddle snapped back even as he sat on the grass next to her. The movement looked so casual it felt impossible to associate it with someone who called himself _Lord Voldemort_. Then, to Hermione's amusement—"What are you writing to him for?"

 

She passed him her letter as she casually told him. "My mother has fallen ill and I might have to go home and help care for her indefinitely." He looked at her strangely then, so she shook her head and lowered her voice. "You how possible _that_ can be. The truth is—I had a strange dream, so I'd like to take certain precautions." 

 

"Trying hard not to incriminate anyone," he said with mild surprise and satisfaction as he read her letter.

 

She snorted. " _Hardly_. But like I said, there can be no record."

 

"You _do_ know you are making things very convenient for me," he told her. It was a warning, not a threat.

 

Hermione paused, looking thoughtful. "I am aware."

 

There was a brief moment during which she was lost in thought and he felt he was waiting for her to tell him something. He wasn't mistaken. "I am afraid I might have to make things more convenient for you, actually," she said hesitantly. There was uncertainty in her voice and fear, and it certainly caught his attention.

 

She looked around them and saw there was no one nearby. Still, she whispered. "You see, I can't exactly leave. I was wondering if you could help me find a decent place to hide," she said, pretending she didn't know that _he_ knew about the Room of Requirement, and desperately hoping that he would share that knowledge with her.

 

He didn't answer immediately but when he did, he sounded confident. "I know a place."

 

She breathed a sigh of relief mixed with gratitude. "And then—Gamp's law—"

 

His smile wasn't necessarily evil but it was undoubtedly malevolent. "You are determined to put your life in my hands. I can bring food to you, Hermione, but there might be—a price."

 

Hermione swallowed. She had no choice. She _had_ to protect the timeline.

 

She strongly hoped that she would live to see Ron and Harry again. Warm affection surged through her as she thought of them; it made her feel brave.

 

"I have no choice, do I?"

 

*

 

He led her to the Room of Requirement. It chose to materialize itself as the inside of a modest cottage, with a kitchen and one bedroom and even a small library. Hermione liked it; Tom seemed a little less impressed.

 

There was a sort of nervousness that settled in her when she saw that the bed was larger than it was necessary for only one person, but Tom never commented on it.

 

"I can come with supplies once a day. Anymore and I might be noticed. Do you know how to cook?"

 

Hermione nodded.

 

"You should probably start settling in now so that come Friday you'll be able to move in indefinitely."

 

Hermione hesitated. "You know... For what it's worth, I'd really prefer a painless death,” she half-joked. Only half.

 

Riddle looked at her. His eyes were completely devoid of emotion. It was unsettling.

 

"You know, Hermione, you have the worst self-preservation instincts than anyone I've ever met," he told her and he was only half-joking himself. Only _half_.

 

*

 

That Friday, when she moved in, they simultaneously decided to throw a bit of an impromptu housewarming party.

 

Hermione had put up some balloons and snacks she had brought in from the Hogwarts kitchen. Tom Riddle had procured some firewhisky—she didn't ask him how. At first Hermione had refused to drink and Riddle had refused to play any party games, but by the end she had drunk entirely too much and he was doing quite well at their sad version of pin the tail on the hippogriff.

 

Hermione was quite sure no one would ever believe her if she told someone about this.

 

"This curry is going to taste like shit," Hermione told him, half-giggling, speech slightly slurred and eyes bright. "I told you we shouldn't substitute water for firewhisky."

 

"You were the one who insisted it was a great idea," Tom defended himself in good humor, and he was decidedly less tipsy. "You called them _curry shots_."

 

She beamed at him then, and it was not just because of the firewhisky. "Since when does the _Heir of Slytherin_ let a _Gryffindor_ call the shots in the kitchen?"—she snorted at her own pun—"Ha ha... shots."

 

He saw the opportunity and seized it. "How do you even _know_ I'm the Heir of Slytherin, anyway?" he asked jovially. It was not hard to feign good humor, with her. "Does old coot Dumbledore just share that suspicion to any student he sees, in the future?"

 

"Heavens, no!” Hermione said, quick to defend Dumbledore. “The Chamber of Secrets was opened during my second year. That bloody basilisk petrified me! And I rather liked Dumbledore."

 

"Who opened the Chamber of Secrets?" he questioned, disturbed. Had he had any children—?

 

She cut off that rather unpleasant train of thought. " _You_ , of course," he scoffed. "You possessed a friend of mine with a diary somehow," Hermione said and then caught herself. She was saying entirely too much. "She ended up chucking your diary in a toilet."

 

Riddle was furious. He knew his diary was unbreakable, but it still displeased him to no end to imagine _his horcrux_ in a drain somewhere. The little chit who'd been possessed had probably found it in the Room of Requirement, where it was hidden. He would have to move it—assign a follower to protect it perhaps—

 

He would think about that later. "What did you think about it?" he asked her rather calmly, more calm than he was feeling at the moment.

 

Hermione didn't have to ask what ' _it_ ' was. "The way you managed to possess my friend was horrible," she chided him. "But the diary itself was an impressive bit of magic. My friend told me it actually _wrote back_ to her. I've looked it up in many textbooks and haven't yet found how you managed that,”—then, begrudgingly—“It was absolutely brilliant."

 

Pride swelled in his chest. He found that he rather liked her praise. "I invented that bit of magic, actually."

 

"Wow," she whistled, eyes wide. "Just wow."

 

He smirked and decided to shift closer to her, putting a hand on the kitchen counter. She took a step back, and found that she was pinned between Riddle and the counter. Her closeness to Riddle unnerved her.

 

"Erm—” she muttered. Her breath smelled like firewhisky.

 

So did his. "I think the curry might be done," he said quietly. There was amusement in his eyes as she squirmed.

 

"Right," she muttered, keeping her body as far from his as possible. It was all she could saw coherently. She had already pressed herself against the counter, but Riddle was still entirely _too close_.

He gave her a rather devious grin and suddenly he looked _breathtakingly handsome_.

 

Then Riddle leaned down towards her until his face was centimeters away from hers, and their lips touched, very briefly, and as sudden as it had begun he swiftly _took a step back_ and looked at her, devilish, _striking_ grin still in place and a brightness in his eyes filled with amusement at _her_ expense—

 

"You have done very well, telling me that," he said and she was not sure what he meant. Her head felt fuzzy. Hermione briefly considered if he was really the kind of person who would use affection as a reward and even briefer still she felt a desire to be rewarded in _that way_ again. She felt incredibly dirty once the feeling passed. And then her stomach sank.

 

She remembered _Ron_.

 

She told him, probably because she was not thinking clearly. "I have a boyfriend." Hermione felt ridiculous, telling _Voldemort_ that.

 

He smiled politely and he twisted her words into something he could use for his advantage. "I was not aware that you would consider me a threat to your relationship."

 

"I—"

 

" _You_?" he mocked her in a way that seemed entirely benign. It confused her.

 

"You're such a prat, Riddle," she blushed angrily and to her surprise, he laughed.

 

"Maybe,” he conceded. “Now are you going to let me try your _fantastic_ chili shots or not?" 

 

He spent the rest of the night joking with her and she didn't touch the firewhisky again.

 

She was distressed to find she really enjoyed his company.

 

*

 

The following day he kept his promise and visited her with breakfast, a newspaper and a small bag of provisions.

 

"Good morning, Hermione," he announced pleasantly as he closed the door behind him, causing her to screech from the kitchen. She had not been expecting him this early—she was in her pajamas! Suddenly, she saw a cozy red robe just within her reach. She grabbed it and quickly put it on, to Riddle's amusement. "I see you've had a rough morning."

 

Hermione grimaced at him. He looked perfect, as always—darn that Slytherin—and she felt keenly aware of her bed head and her ratty pajamas and the fact that she was hungover.

"You gave me entirely too much to drink last night," she huffed accusingly as if this was the first time in the history of the world that she had decided to make herself tea in her pajamas. He smiled.

 

"I did _offer_ you too much to drink," he corrected her. "I didn't _force_ you to drink that much firewhisky."

 

Hermione groaned as she poured them both tea. "I know. I feel horrible about it. I don't usually drink—but I was so excited—hiding here makes me feel like I am actually doing something to go home, you know? Like I am one step closer to my time. I can't wait to see everybody again."

 

She sat with him at the small kitchen table and began drinking her tea, gradually feeling more awake. Her eyes went wide when he took out the box he’d brought breakfast in.

 

"You brought me _pancakes_? _Thank_ you!"

 

He looked at her pleasantly as he sipped his tea and casually said "I noticed they seem to be your favorite."

 

She smiled. " _Stalker_."

 

He looked mischievously at her and countered with "You didn't give me any sugar for my tea."

 

"You _never_ have sugar with your tea," she said before realizing what she was admitting to.

 

" _Mmm-hmm_ ," he muttered simply, but the accusation lingered heavily in the air: _You are a stalker too._

 

She ate rather quietly as he sipped his tea and read the Daily Prophet. Grindelwald was on the cover and Hermione looked at the picture of the wizard with a moderate degree of distaste.

 

"You know," she said, nose slightly wrinkled with disapproval, "it was very interesting to have met you and all, but if I somehow survive all of this"—she waved her hand at her surroundings—"and I timetravel again, I rather wish to get sent to a time of peace for a change."

 

Riddle raised an eyebrow. "You keep insinuating I will murder you. Have I not just fed you breakfast?"

 

"And it is delicious, again _thank_ you," Hermione said sheepishly. "But it's kind of hard to forget that you're Lord Voldemort. You're getting something out of all of this—this _act_."

 

"I will admit I'm rather curious about what happens to me in the future," he conceded. "I was hoping that we could negotiate today, actually."

 

She paused for a slight moment before getting another orange slice, eyes firmly on the table. "You want information," she said. It was not a question.

 

"Only in the most general sense," he said. “Nothing that could affect the timeline, of course. I was thinking you might be willing to answer one question a day—just _one_ question—in exchange for your continued survival."

 

She visibly stiffened, causing him to quickly clarify. "You know, having me bring you provisions. There is no need to be so paranoid."

 

Hermione considered her orange slice. "Can I veto any questions?"

 

"Of course."

 

"Okay then, I guess," she said nervously. It was evident she wasn't comfortable with their arrangement, but her instinct of self-preservation were finally— _finally_ —kicking in. She did not want to die here. Never mind that he would pretty much guarantee her death after September 2nd, 1998. Unless— "What is your first question?" she asked, and Riddle rather thought that this had been deliriously easy.

 

He felt triumphant.

 

"I don't know yet," he lied. What was the term Hermione had used? Stockholm syndrome. He had to work a bit more to get her guard down, if he wanted the most useful answers. "How about I ask you later on, if that's alright."

 

Her brown eyes widened slightly with surprise. "You're staying here?"

 

"Only for a while, to keep you company. I don't have anything better to do."

 

And Hermione knew he had lied—it was his final year at Hogwarts, he _very likely_ had better things to do.

 

But there was not much of anything better that _she_ could do, and Hermione did like his company, when he was trying to be so charming...

 

"Well, alright," she muttered, and suddenly he smiled and leaned toward her and gave her an almost-chaste kiss on the corner of her mouth as if he'd just missed her cheek by an inch—or her _lips_ mere millimeters—

 

And Hermione's heart fluttered, and she found that she could barely _think_ —and there was a sort of _want_ she'd never felt before and a certain pressure in her chest that felt almost _unbearable_ —

 

" _That's_ a good girl, Hermione," Riddle whispered his approval before he pulled away, an innocent smile gracing his beautiful lips. His eyes were _fire_.

 

And she was _lost_.

 

* * *

 

A/N: Thank you all so much for your reviews, follows and favorites! It really means a lot. Makes me feel like I am not writing this to myself. ^_^

 

There _may_ be more than one chapter left. Tom is being rather— _bolder_ , than I had planned, and much more charming than I’d envisioned. And these two are getting along rather swimmingly, all things considered. Hm.


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